


Presentiment

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Halloween, M/M, gay nonsense, the least frightening halloween story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12678252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: pre·sen·ti·mentprəˈzen(t)əməntnounnoun: presentiment; plural noun: presentimentsan intuitive feeling about the future, especially one of foreboding."a presentiment of disaster"Tim didn't get to experience the same idyllic Halloween that Rhys did growing up. Rhys decides to do something drastic to make up for it.





	Presentiment

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something cute and fluffy and domestic for Halloween, but I ended up with twelve thousand goddamn words of it. :^| Also it's not even Halloween anymore???
> 
> This was written in a bit of a daze, and the editing was maybe a little too shoddy, and it wasn't even beta'd, but it's done and that's what matters. Hopefully you get some mild enjoyment out of it. 
> 
> Could take place in the same universe as [North Child Espresso and Cocktail Bar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347548) but you don't need to read that to understand this.
> 
> Special thanks to Scootsaboot for editing and also for coming up with the couples costume idea. She's a hero. <3

It began when Rhys’ parents moved, more or less.

Rhys’ parents had lived for almost twenty years in their large, four bedroom home, in what used to be deep in the suburbs. They’d moved there when Rhys was two years old, with hopes of expanding their little family and giving Rhys the siblings he never really wanted.

But that was then, during a more ideal, eternally golden time. Now, their sleepy neighbourhood had become, thanks to urban crawl and the newly built university, a far trendier place to live than either Gerald or Melinda had wanted. The kind of place that started to attract younger, hipper couples, or— _quell horruer—_ students. When the Greek letters had started appearing above painted terraces, his parents decided it was time to move.

The process unearthed a lot of ancient history. Boxes of old toys and clothes, entombed in layers of dust in their baking attic, now brought out to the fresh air, where they could be examined and cooed over. Rhys and his sisters had gone to help, doing their best to claim old childhood mementoes before his mother and father could toss them into the firepit, something they’d been threatening to do since Rhys had graduated high school.

It was a nice day. The pulls of adult life had kept Rhys from seeing his family as often as he liked, and it was a rare occasion indeed that let them spend time together outside of major holidays.

Rhys decided to bring Tim. It would be the first time he would meet the whole family.

“This is Tim,” Rhys introduced him. “He’s my boyfriend and he’s good at picking up heavy things.”

Tim gave him a hard time for it later, but it wasn’t as if Rhys had misrepresented him.

One of the things they unearthed, like a mummy from its tomb, were a pile of family albums.

It started the way all horror stories did, with the unsuspecting victim in ignorant bliss. Rhys and Sasha were both in the kitchen, drinking spiked lemonade at the island, and watching Tim haul boxes of junk from the second floor to the disposal unit his parents had rented for the day. Tim had worked up a sweat, which did him some favours.  His t-shirt clung to the dip in his back, stretched across his shoulders and chest. They watched him through the picture windows as he set another box down, stood up and stretched out his back.

“Nice,” Sasha said as Tim tugged at his collar, trying to generate a little air flow.

It was mid-September, one of those golden afternoons that always put Rhys in mind of apple picking, and making cider, and visiting pumpkin patches, and all the little picturesque autumn things that he liked to imagine doing but never actually found the time to. He always felt a little sad when autumn passed. It seemed to happen so quickly, usually on 12:01am on November 1st, when all the malls flicked over their PA systems to Christmas music and everyone had a red and white paper cup in their hands.

Tim seemed like the type who might enjoy apple picking, or corn mazing, or hayrides or pumpkin spice whatever. He had a face made for autumn. His brown freckles looked particularly nice under the yellow-orange light that streamed through the changing leaves, touching him like God’s own Instagram filter. He would look amazing at an apple orchard, or in a pumpkin patch. If only he dressed better.

Sasha nudged him. “You’re drooling.”

Rhys wasn’t, but he tore his gaze away regardless. He straightened up and scowled at her.

Her grin widened. “And now you’re blushing. Should we invite him in for some lemonade? He looks like he could use something refreshing.” It wasn’t a very good innuendo, but her voice implied all kinds of filth.

“He probably could,” Rhys said primly. “It’s very hot out.”

She nodded, her expression serious. “I see what you’re saying. Maybe he could take his shirt off.”

Rhys shoved her. “Stop ogling my boyfriend.”

“Don’t push me!” She shoved him back.

Rhys recalled why he didn’t spend much time with his charming sisters outside of the four big holidays and occasional milestone birthdays. Spending time with Sasha and Fiona was like travelling through time. It always made Rhys feel fourteen again.

“Oh, Rhys, Sasha, honey, stop fighting.” Rhys’ mother bustled into the room with a stack of thick, leather binder ring albums, piled like corpses in a mass grave in her arms. “Look at what I found!” She beamed at them.

Rhys’ heart sank. Sasha became uncharacteristically still.

“Are those…?” he began.

“The old albums!” Melinda set them onto the island and immediately began spreading them out. They were all leather-bound and slithered over each other like snakes in a pit, all filled with plastic pages that stuck together when you tried to turn them, all with years painted on the cover in a curling golden script.

“Look, look, this one’s from our camping trip to the thousand lakes!”

Albums spilled open, pages sliding apart with a hiss, and the scent of dust and sun-burnt plastic filled the air. Rhys’ childhood confronted him in faded sepia-tones, images of skinny boys—the same boy, over and over—with his bleached out face, stringy brown hair, red and silver mouth, and his knees like apples on stilts. Images of his parents with feathered hair and acid-wash jeans, crew-neck sweaters in washed out neon. He’d forgotten his mother used to wear blue eyeshadow.

“Look, Rhys, there you are!” His lovely mother helpfully jabbed her finger to one of the pages, where a naked toddler stood with a plastic shovel in his one pudgy fist and a bucket at his feet on the grey shore of some forgotten beach. “Look at you,” she cooed. “You were just a baby.”

“Awww.” Sasha’s grin was an invitation for violence. “Look at that little tummy!”

“You wouldn’t know it now, but as a baby, Rhys was quite the little porker,” his mother said with fondness. Rhys’ face warmed.

“Mom,” he whispered, fourteen again and forever.

“He was in the top percentile for his age!” she boasted.

“Who was?” Tim asked.

This was where the story turned frightening. Where the knife on the mantle place found its home in the hands of a maniac. It was like a collision in Rhys’ head. He wanted to drape his body over the open albums to prevent his hot boyfriend from seeing Rhys as a dumb, fat baby, or an awkward, scrawny adolescent. He wanted to intercept Tim and guide him away from his mother’s beaming pride and his little sister’s obnoxious grin, back out into the car and into Rhys’ home, where he could peel his t-shirt off in peace. He wanted to set the island on fire. He wanted to go back in time and destroy his parents’ Polaroid camera.

But like an oversexed teen fleeing from a chainsaw-wielding maniac, Rhys only managed, in the split second between Tim’s arrival and his mother’s gesture for him to come closer was to twitch off the high stool, slide his foot across the linoleum, and nearly fall onto the ground. The only thing that saved him from chipping his expensive orthodontry on the lip of the island was his own cat-like reflexes. He gripped the edge of the counter-top with one hand, half-hanging

“You okay, spaz?” Sasha asked.  

“Oh, Timothy, come here,” his mother said. Ever obedient, Tim approached at Melinda’s insistence.  

“Is there any lemonade left?” Tim asked while Rhys straightened himself with difficulty and without dignity, or anyone’s help.

“There is!” Rhys grabbed Tim’s arm. “Outside! Let’s drink outside while the weather is still nice, how do you feel about apple orchards?” he babbled, trying to steer him away, but it was like trying to move a tombstone with a plastic shovel.

Tim’s eyes widened. “Are those…?”

“They’re our childhood photos,” Sasha said with a grin that was grounds for murder. “Did you know Rhys was a fat baby?”

The look on Tim’s face might’ve been comical, if this hadn’t been the most terrifying moment of Rhys’ life. Sasha certainly found it funny.

Tim was equal parts fascinated and delighted by Rhys’ childhood. The rest of the day was a wash, production-wise, as their strongest set of arms spent the next hour with Rhys’ mother, poring over opened albums with the same focused expression Tim usually reserved for studying 24 hour foster kitten live streams on Youtube.

Rhys tried more than once to drag him away, but it was a useless gesture. Tim was hooked. Melinda was thrilled to have such an attentive passenger for her trip down memory lane.

“This was taken just after we started fostering the girls. Oh, look at little Fi’s face. She used to tease Rhys something terrible. One time she hid under his bed with a Halloween mask on, waiting for him to fall asleep.”

“I remember that,” Sasha said. She aimed a smile at Rhys from across the island. “Rhys started crying.”

“He tried to run away from home the next week,” Melinda went on with a sigh. “Packed his little suitcase and everything.”

“Another tantrum in a long line of them,” Fiona said as she popped the cap off of a beer.

“You were a hellion,” Rhys said. His face had turned the colour of a tomato forty-five minutes before and hadn’t gotten any paler since. “That was serial killer stuff you tried to pull on me. I had nightmares for _years_.”

Fiona snorted, her eyes rolling back as she took a drink.

Melinda just turned the page. “This was Halloween that year. We took all three kids out together. Little Sasha in her dinosaur costume,” Melinda cooed.

Sasha shifted in her seat. “I went through a dinosaur phase,” she said with a nervous smile.

“And Fiona and Rhys dressed as pirates.” Melinda sighed happily. The photo showed the three of them, lined up in front of the house they were now slowly and methodically gutting from the top down. Rhys stood between the two sisters, acting on the instruction of his mother, dressed in a white and red striped shirt, a brown vest, and a pair of artfully ripped blue pants. He wore an eyepatch over his right eye, and a wooden peg with a hook hand where his right arm should’ve been.

This was before adolescence hit Rhys like a freight train, which meant that his apple cheeks were round and clear of spots, and his hair was shiny instead of greasy. It was embarrassing, of course, but Rhys had to admit that it was one of his better periods. Even if his little boy smile gleamed with metal braces.

“We were putting him in costumes that incorporated his disability, to show that it could be something he could have fun with.” Melinda patted Rhys affectionately on the joint of his prosthetic.

“I wanted to be a zombie,” Rhys said with a pout. “But Fiona wanted to be a pirate and you made me do it.”

“Pirates are cool,” Fiona said.

“Zombies were too scary,” Melinda said.

Tim didn’t say anything. He stared at the picture of Rhys in his pirate outfit like it was a pile of sleeping kittens. Rhys thought he might start crying.

Melinda caught Rhys’ eye and winked.

* * *

Tim was _fascinated_. It was all he talked about that night over the plastic tubs of steaming souvlaki they picked up for dinner.

“That neighbourhood is so nice,” Tim said for the third time. “It looked like the kind of street the kids on television would grow up in.”

Rhys dragged his pita across his plate, chasing the last smears of garlic sauce and tzatziki. “I guess,” he said before stuffing his mouth full of bread and yogurt. “It was just a house, you know? It didn’t seem all that special at the time.” It didn’t seem special at all, until his parents decided to move. Rhys didn’t exactly share Tim’s starry-eyed view of his past, but he did find himself having actual feelings when he thought about those old pictures.

“It must’ve been really nice,” Tim said wistfully as he reached for the potatoes. “Growing up in a place like that, I mean. You looked happy.” He leaned over and nudged Rhys with his shoulder. “And so cute.”

Rhys stared determinedly at his plate, ignoring the way the teasing smile Tim sent him made his face grow warm.

“That Halloween picture was my favourite. You were the sweetest pirate I’ve ever seen,” Tim said as they cleared their dishes. Rhys grumbled as he scraped the left overs into one plastic tub.

“It must’ve been nice,” Tim said.

“Being a pirate? You know it was just a costume, right?” Rhys asked as he opened the fridge.

“Celebrating Halloween in that little suburb,” Tim said. “Going door to door, wearing your cute costumes…” He sighed and turned his face towards the ceiling, a far-away look in his eyes. “With those braces, I bet little Rhys had a lisp.”

Rhys _had_ , although he’d sooner set his hair on fire than admit it. He wrapped his fingers around Tim’s wrists and pulled him away from the counter, from the pile of dirty dishes, and to someplace where he could put his hands to better use. Tim went without a fight into the living room, to the couch where they could both curl up. Where Tim could kiss him, and Rhys could get his hands on his chest the way he’d been aching to do all day long.

“I bet,” Tim said, kissing along Rhys’ neck. “I bet you were a total brat about your candy. I bet you tried to steal from your sisters.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Rhys said, tipping his head as Tim pushed him gently down onto the couch. “I was a good kid. Honest.”

Tim snickered in a very unattractive way against Rhys’ shoulder. “Please. You barely know the meaning of the word ‘share’ _today_. I practically had to wrestle the garlic potatoes from you.”

Except he hadn’t, and when Rhys looked longingly at Tim’s serving, he’d pushed half the pile onto Rhys’ plate without a word.

“It’s not fair,” Rhys said, his head falling back with a soft thump. “You got to see my embarrassing kid photos but I never got to see yours.”

“Well. There weren’t any,” Tim said.

Rhys chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn’t know the full details of Tim’s childhood, but he knew enough to know that he was treading across uncertain ground. He ran his hand down Tim’s back.

“Then paint me a picture with your words, writer,” Rhys said. “Tell me all about little Tim. I bet you were an awkward looking little kid. I bet you had braces, too. Freckles and braces.”

Tim snorted. “We couldn’t afford them. I just had freckles and crooked teeth. I didn’t get braces until I was in university and only because the health plan paid for most of it. Trust me,” Tim said, dropping a kiss onto Rhys’ chest. “I wasn’t a cute kid. Not like you.” He rested his chin on what might’ve been Rhys’ pectoral, if he’d ever visited a gym in his life. “I was always jealous of kids like you, to be honest.”

“Kids with only one arm?” Rhys asked a little tartly. If they were going to play misery poker, Rhys had a few cards up his pinned sleeve.

Tim smiled, abashed. “Kids with nice houses and two parents. Kids who got to dress up and go door to door for candy on Halloween.”

Rhys’ annoyance faded. He frowned at Tim. “You didn’t get to go out for Halloween?” he asked.

Tim’s fingers wound their way through Rhys’ thick hair, breaking apart the gelled locks and messing up his style. Rhys leaned into it, for once unconcerned by his appearance. Tim always thought he looked good, anyway.

“We weren’t allowed to,” Tim said. Rhys opened his eyes to look at his boyfriend. Tim’s eyes were glazed, gaze half-lidded and pointed to the floor, as if he were seeing something unravelling there. “Grandma said it was the devil’s night. Everyone who went out worshipping Satan would go to hell for their sins. I used to believe her.”

Rhys’ brow pulled together. “So… What did you do on Halloween?”

“We locked up the house. Pulled the blinds, turned off the lights. She made us pray to God to forgive our sins.” Tim laughed silently, a warm breath on Rhys’ chest. “I don’t think it ever worked. The way grandma talked about us, we would’ve had to been on our knees for days before he could get an ounce of forgiveness from the guy upstairs.”

Rhys bit his lip, a little sorry he’d asked. He could see it in his mind’s eye: little Tim on his knees, hands clasped tight in a child’s prayer, in the centre of a dark room. Just beyond a closed door, other children were running down the street, laughing and swinging hollow plastic pumpkins filled with candy.

“Once she brought us to a Hell House,” Tim said, pulling Rhys back to the present. “It’s kind of like a haunted house, only instead of ghosts or monsters, there’s demons and Satan and mortal sin.”

“That could be scary,” Rhys said uncertainly.

Tim smiled with one side of his mouth. “It certainly gave me nightmares. They had real actors. A woman pretending to be a cheerleader, getting a bloody abortion in a filthy hospital room.” Tim’s expression glazed over once more, and Rhys got the impression he was looking at something through the eyes of his younger self. “Two teens sprawled dead on the pavement from drunk driving. Witches convincing a depressed teen to shoot up his school. Satan officiating a wedding between two men.”

“That last one sounds kind of funny,” Rhys said. Tim’s smile lost some of its sharpness.

“It was, a little,” he admitted.

“The rest sounds awful.” Rhys pushed his fingers through Tim’s soft hair, ran his hand down the knobby edge of his spine. He could feel it when Tim began to unwind, like a spring uncoiling. The tension from the last few minutes drained.

Tim hummed, his eyes slipping shut. “I always wanted to go to a fun haunted house. Or go trick or treating. By the time I got away from that woman, it was too late. I was too old.”

“You’re never too old to go trick or treating,” Rhys said. He ran his finger down the pink shell of Tim’s ear.

“You sure as hell are. Do you not remember what it was like being a teenager? I would’ve been exiled to the ninth circle of outcast losers if they caught me going door to door wearing a costume. It would just be me and the guy who got caught touching himself to The Great Mouse Detective.”

Rhys’ fingers stilled. “The Disney movie?”

“Yep. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” Tim lowered his head and sighed, smiling still. “There’s loads of things I didn’t get to do as a kid, but it’s alright. There’s plenty who were worse off than me, and I’m good now.”

Rhys frowned as he continued smoothing down Tim’s hair, running his fingers down the back of his freckled neck. He could picture that Hell House, too: little Tim, likely smaller than other boys his age for maximum tragedy, cowering in the strobing red lights of blood and hellfire. Him and other children, shrieking and clinging to their parents in fear. Except Tim’s smug grandmother likely wouldn’t even offer him that comfort.

Tim relaxed into Rhys’ embrace, and brushed his lips against what skin he could reach. The conversation turned, and Tim didn’t mention Rhys’ childhood photos, or the Hell Houses, again.

But Rhys didn’t forget. That night, as Tim sighed himself to sleep, curled against Rhys’ side, Rhys stared at the shifting silver-blue light on his ceiling and made plans.

* * *

Rhys researched what he needed on the internet, and, after realizing the amount of work that would be required of him to transform his home, he did what anyone wealthy enough to buy their way out of minor inconveniences did and went looking for someone to do it for him. Keeping it from Tim was the real difficult part. For the eight months they’d been dating, Tim had spent almost half of his weeknights and all of his weekends at Rhys’ three bedroom house. Finding excuses to keep Tim away for the next few days without arousing any suspicion needed finesse. Fortunately, Rhys had finesse in spades. It only took until the second week when Tim finally caught on.

“Why can’t we go to your place?” Tim asked after Rhys insisted the perfect way to top off their drive through the countryside for a picnic was to go back to Tim’s one bedroom apartment.

“What’s wrong with your place?” Rhys asked, staring down at Tim with an expression of perfect innocence.

“Are you trying to keep me away from your house?” Tim asked, eyes narrowing. “We stayed at my place all last week. Is there something wrong?”

Rhys pushed his head under Tim’s chin, curling up beside him. “There’s nothing wrong. I like your apartment. I miss your cat.”

Invoking Tim’s cat was a sure-fire way to end the conversation before it could begin. Rhys knew Tim felt guilty about spending time away from Missy.

Rhys kept the ruse up until the third weekend of October, when he was informed that his home was finally ready.

The very next day, Rhys decided, he would invite Tim to see the good work. And it was good. Rhys had never felt so deeply unnerved in his own home before in all his life.

As the representative of the FX company calmly explained all the mechanisms and safety protocols behind his spooky home make-over, Rhys found himself staring at his entry room with open awe. He could only hope Tim would enjoy it.

* * *

Was it strange? Rhys was not one given to self-reflection, generally. He was certainly not accustomed to second guessing himself, either. But he found himself doing both all the time when it came to Tim.

He’d never had reservations about spoiling his previous partners. He’d enjoyed doing it, and his partners enjoyed receiving his gifts. It was never an issue. It _shouldn’t_ have been an issue now.

Tim wasn’t the first of Rhys’ partners to be uncomfortable about his displays of wealth, but he was the first one to make Rhys actually hesitate before he spent the money. He tried to consider how it would make Tim feel. It was a strange change of pace for a man who was barely at home with considering his _own_ feelings.

And this… _Was_ it strange? To spend a large sum of money to transform his home into a spooky haunted house of horrors just because his boyfriend never got to enjoy a real Halloween? Rhys stared at the severed head on a silver platter, held in the bloodied hand of a mechanical butler. A week ago, Rhys had a planter with a Japanese peace lily in its place.

The built-in shelves that now contained severed limbs, twitching hands and spasming feet, once had Rhys’ collection of tasteful minimalist sculptures, ceramic vases and selected leather-bound Penguin classic books. Rhys’ vintage oriental rug had been replaced with a tattered, blood-stained look-alike (the designer had been particularly pleased with that detail).

Rhys pushed his hand through his hair, heedless of the expensive product he’d run through it only hours before. No one else made him feel quite this… stupid. Nervous. _Exposed_. Sometimes being with Tim was a bit like those nightmares of being late for a final exam he hadn’t studied for.

All of his previous partners got luxury watches, or sapphire necklaces with matching earrings. Surprise trips to the Swiss Alps, a shopping excursion to Rodeo Drive. Safe things, things everyone loved, things he never had to think about before he slapped down his platinum card. For Tim he was willing to turn his tasteful Victorian-style manse into some cheesy carnival funhouse. What the hell was wrong with him? All this for a guy he’d been dating for eight months?

What if Tim didn’t even like it?

Tim arrived ten minutes later, exactly on time. Rhys watched him through the front window as he stood up from his car, mouth agape as he stared at the house.

Rhys met him on the walkway. He decided he would play it cool.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Rhys leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Traffic was okay?”

Tim didn’t reply. He didn’t pull his gaze from Rhys’ front yard, which had been converted into a derelict cemetery. An open grave sat to the side of the interlocked stone path, where two figures with lumpy sacks and lumpier faces stood over a cracked coffin. Partially decayed hands reached out from the dirt like late-blooming flowers, their fingers curled with rigor. One grave looked fresher than the others, the dirt still disturbed and shovels still close by. A bell on a string hung over its clean headstone, ringing with desperation, just above a sign that indicated the other end of the string was inside the coffin.

“Uh… Am I at the right address?” Tim asked.

 “You are, dummy.” Rhys kissed him again. “Do you like it?”

“You did this?” Rhys had to bite back a sigh. At least his boyfriend was cute. Tim looked at Rhys at last. “For Halloween?”

Rhys pinched his cheek. “No. Happy Valentines Day, honeybunch. I hope you like it,” Rhys said.

Tim knocked his hand back. “Look at this place! You’ve changed everything.”

“Not everything,” Rhys said, taking his hand and leading him to the front door. “Only the things the trick-or-treaters will see. Front yard, front room, and the dressing in the picture window.”

“Wait, you changed the front entrance?” The look on Tim’s face was far too endearing for a grown man in his 30s. “ _Trick-or-treaters_? Are we going to stay in for trick-or-treaters on Halloween?”

The excitement in his voice, coupled with the look on his face, dispelled all of Rhys’ earlier doubts. He’d done good. He brought Tim’s hand to his lips and lead him inside.

* * *

Tim was thrilled. They spent the afternoon exploring the house, and everything was a marvel to him. Tim particularly enjoyed the maniacal butler, although he did not care for the shrieking severed head.

 “So, do you like it?” Rhys asked after he’d given Tim a tour, confidence oozing from every syllable.

Tim leaned forward and kissed Rhys. “I love it,” he said. “I hope you didn’t do all of this just for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Rhys said, wrapping his arms around Tim’s waist. “Who do you think you are? My boyfriend or something? I did this for _me_. I can finally live out my childhood dream of owning a haunted mansion.”

Tim’s smile turned wry. “Uh huh. Does that mean you’re not going to call me the next time you get spooked by a spider in the bathroom?”

Rhys frowned. “That spider was huge. It should’ve been paying rent,” he insisted while Tim laughed. “I was afraid it was going to steal my hair wax.”

Rhys’ kitchen and living room were still the same as they’d always been, and now the stylish, polished counters and tiled floor felt particularly jarring to come into after leaving the cobwebbed and bloodied entrance and den. They sat in the kitchen, eating an informal dinner in Rhys’ breakfast nook, where the late evening sunlight streamed across Rhys’ manicured backyard and through the windows, bright and warm and so different from the gloom they’d left behind. Appropriately enough, they were eating breakfast for dinner.

It was there, over goat cheese omelettes and maple sausages, that Tim began to fret. “Are you sure you’re okay with staying for trick or treating on Halloween?” he asked. “I know you were excited about Yvette’s party.”

Halloween was on a Saturday night this year, which meant the streets would run with sticky, candy-coloured cocktails, and every dive bar would plug in black lights and charge $20 cover. When Rhys was a young man, he’d spent every pre-Halloween Friday and Saturday out on the town, looking for clubs or house parties to crash. His frat used to throw a rager every year, something Rhys remembered with dim, beer-goggled fondness.

Now that he and his friends were all ostensibly adults, they spent their Halloweens indoors, usually at someone’s apartment, drinking through vats of purple vodka punch and eating cheese dip until everyone was sick. It was very similar to their old parties, only the dance floor was smaller, and the only hot, young thing Rhys could take home was the one he’d brought with him.

Rhys had intended to take Tim to Yvette’s penthouse party this year. His closest friends had already met Tim, but Yvette’s party was his chance to debut Tim to the wider social circle. And, in much the same way Rhys enjoyed wearing a new luxury watch, or trying out a new, custom scent, or a new pair of Italian shoes, he had been rather looking forward to the opportunity to show Tim off. Especially in the costume Tim had agreed to wear to match with Rhys.

“We can go to that after,” Rhys said dismissively as he buttered a slice of rye. “The kids aren’t going to be out late.”

Tim seemed to be satisfied with that, and it kept him at ease through dinner. It wasn’t until they were back in Rhys’ living room, curled up together on the couch, that he started up again.

“It wasn’t too much money, was it?” he asked while Rhys flicked through Netflix’s offerings. “I know  you said you didn’t do it for me, but… Maybe I could contribute something. I wouldn’t mind,” he added when Rhys shot him a sidelong look.

“I’m rich, remember? I don’t care about the money,” Rhys said, leaning back into the couch. He rest his head on Tim’s shoulder. “Even if I did do this for you, who cares? It’s not a bother.”

“It feels like a bother,” Tim muttered as he draped his arm over Rhys’ shoulder. Rhys kissed his neck.

“It’s not,” he said. “Anyway, if you’re really determined to contribute, you can buy the candy.”

Maybe it was the compromise, or maybe it was the reminder that they were going to hand out candy to small, possibly adorable children together—whatever it was, Tim let himself relax at last. He said nothing else about it for the rest of the night.

The next morning, however, he had new concerns. He stood out on the lawn, amongst the animatronic dead, with Rhys’ seldom-used rake in his hand and a bag stuffed half-full of dead leaves at his feet and frowned up at the Victorian house. Rhys found him there, examining his home like a sailor examining storm clouds on the horizon.

“You don’t think it’ll be too scary for the really little kids, do you?” he asked when Rhys handed him his coffee.

Rhys hadn’t considered that. In truth, he hadn’t considered the kids at all, except as trick or treating moppets whose only purpose in Rhys’ scheme was to make Tim smile. Suppose if they started crying at his doorstep? That would endanger their part in Rhys’ plan.

“They’ll have big kids with them,” Rhys said, only a hint of doubt in his voice. “Or their parents. They’ll keep them calm, right?”

Tim hummed noncommittally and leaned on the rake. “Maybe I should reconsider my costume. I don’t want to scare any kids…”

Rhys had to bite his lip to keep the immediate growl that rose up in his throat down. He took a silent breath and reminded himself that they would have all night, and if he wanted to get Tim in his costume, he could.

“Although it’s a little late to get a new one,” Tim said. The frown lines on his forehead grew in number. Rhys leaned in and kissed them until they went smooth.

“Everything’s going to be fine.” Now Rhys had dimples to kiss, which he did happily. “You’re going to be great. The kids aren’t going to be too scared, and if they are…” Rhys hesitated, leaning his weight onto Tim like a cat without an ounce of shame. “Well. There are things we can do to make your costume less frightening.”

“I was already thinking about that,” Tim said, taking Rhys’ weight without a word of complaint. “Cut out the blood and the fangs. Maybe wear a shirt.”

Rhys frowned. “Let’s not get crazy here,” he said. Tim chuckled and kissed him. “I mean it,” Rhys said, pulling back. “Wearing a shirt would ruin everything.”

“We’ll figure it out. You can stare at my chest on your own time,” Tim said, grinning.

“I fully intend to,” Rhys said. “That’s not the point. The point is that other people can see what they can’t have. I’m _showing you off_ , Tim.”

Tim just laughed. Rhys pouted but let the matter drop when Tim obligingly kissed him again.

* * *

“Will you be okay, spending the night alone?” Tim asked as he pulled his t-shirt on over his head.

“Of course.” Rhys unscrewed the lid on his tub of hair wax, his gaze fixed on his reflection. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, there’s a haunted mirror in your front room and a collection of cobras in the corners. Your front yard has got three open graves, and a tree that moves its limbs independent of the wind.” Tim padded up behind him as Rhys ran his hands through his hair. He met his gaze in the mirror and gave him a lopsided smile. “It’s kind of scary.”

Rhys scoffed. “That? A bunch of rubber animatronics painted with fake blood, holding fake guts, and fake knives. That’s not scary.”

Tim wrapped his arms around Rhys waist, hooked his chin over his shoulder. “Tough guy, huh?”

Rhys leaned back into him, humming. “That’s right. You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I’m made of sterner stuff.”

Tim kissed his neck. “Unless you see a spider.”

Rhys frowned. “It was in the _shower_ , Tim,” he said while Tim smiled against the crook of his neck. “It was coming right for me. I was _naked_.”

“Oh, I remember.” Tim kissed his cheek. “Glad a tough guy like you at least needs me for something, even if it’s killing spiders.”

“You didn’t even kill it,” Rhys grumbled. “You made me wait while you found some of my Tupperware to trap it.” Tim only laughed and kissed him again.

It was fine. The butler did give Rhys a minor scare on Tuesday morning, when Rhys descended the stairs to see a figure lurking in the dark. That was as bad as it got. After a while, it became almost funny. All those rubber creatures, all those technological parlour tricks, just became part of his house. As notable as his La Creuset kitchenware, as dangerous as the ottoman Rhys’ occasionally knocked his calf into.

Tim arrived on the following Friday, October 30, almost immediately after work. He came with the candy, his costume, and vegetables and a six pack of pumpkin ale for their dinner.

“Uh.” Rhys raised an eyebrow at the bulging reusable bags stuffed with candy bars, snack packs of chips, gum, and a colourful assortment of much more. “Just how many kids are we going to feed tomorrow?” Rhys asked as he took a few of the bags from Tim’s arms.

“This house is huge,” Tim said. “People’ll want to come from all over. We gotta anticipate at least a hundred kids, maybe more.”

Rhys raised his other eyebrow but kept his mouth shut. The amount of junk Tim had bought would stuff close to three hundred kids silly, in his estimation. Several lucky visitors were going to become nearly spherical by November 2nd.

But Tim looked so damn pleased with himself.

He grinned at Rhys. “You look nice,” he said. He pecked Rhys on the lips and shoved another bag into his arms.

Tim with his pink, wind-chapped cheeks and tousled salt and pepper hair; his lumpy, hand-knit blue sweater, cracked leather jacket, and his pale dad jeans. He was a human disaster, a poorly dressed mess of a man, and if Rhys were the type for self-reflection, he might wonder why he found Tim so damn attractive.

“I brought veggies for pasta tonight. You still want to try making squid ink linguini?” he asked as he pushed off his shoes. He’d brought in late autumn with him, fragments of dried brown leaves stuck to his sweater and the hem of his hideous jeans, the smell of cold wind and wet concrete under his collar, mud stuck to the soles of his shoes.

Rhys had never hand-cranked a single thing in his entire life. He hadn’t even bought the pasta maker—that’d been a purchase made by his interior designer, who selected an antique silver thing from the trendy shops downtown. But as soon as Tim had laid eyes on it, he’d insisted they try to use it.

As if Rhys didn’t have better things to do with his time.

“What are you smiling at?” Tim asked. Rhys shook his head, set the bags down by the haunted mirror, wrapped his arms around Tim’s shoulders and kissed him.

They didn’t break apart for some time. By the time they did, Tim didn’t smell like the outside anymore. He carried the scent of roasted coffee, lemon polish, and vanilla. The scents of Rhys’ home, of Rhys himself.

“Nothing,” Rhys answered, rubbing his nose against Tim’s. “You’re ridiculous.”

Tim pouted. “Why?”

Rhys smothered his laugh with Tim’s mouth. He would’ve been happy to stay there all evening. Happier still to take Tim upstairs for a while. But they had things to do, and Rhys was getting hungry.

“So.” He pulled back with great reluctance. “Squid ink pasta?”

Tim was slow to open his eyes. Slower still to close his red, bitten lips. He looked up at Rhys, his hand still wound through Rhys’ hair, and gave him a look that made Rhys shudder.

“In a little while,” he said. He took Rhys by the hand and lead him, as if he could read his mind and grant all of his wishes, upstairs, into the master bedroom.

* * *

The next day, Tim made adjustments to his costume, much to Rhys’ disappointment. He ripped a new pair of bloodstain-free jeans, tearing one leg up to the knee to reveal his tantalizing calf muscles. Instead of wearing the tattered remains of a white shirt, he instead selected an old, clean flannel shirt, which looked comfortable but covered every part of Tim that Rhys wanted to show off.

“My face is still visible,” Tim said mildly when Rhys complained.

“Everyone gets to see your face all the time,” Rhys said reasonably. “Slutty costumes are a tradition on Halloween.” Rhys reached between the buttons of Tim’s shirt and gave him a friendly but meaningful grope.

Tim rolled his eyes and opened the top three buttons on his shirt in a compromise that made Rhys a little happier.

They barely managed to eat their left-overs before Tim fled to get dressed and the first wide-eyed children appeared at the end of Rhys’ winding driveway. The electronic gates were propped open for the night, rusted chains and cobwebs hung from the high wrought iron spikes. A raven perched on the fence, watching the newcomers with glowing red eyes. The FX company had outdone themselves in general, but Rhys was particularly fond of what they’d done to his yard. The ringing bell, the scowling grave robbers, the hissing fog oozing from behind broken headstones (courtesy of the rented fog machine), the haunted tree planted at the entrance with its flashing eyes, the hanged man dangling from a high branch. The sack that covered his face expanded and contracted as if he were still breathing. Periodically, he would flail desperately, startling anyone who got close.

There was a pack of six at the gates: five children, the eldest of whom appeared to be nine, and one teenager. The teenager stared at the swaying feet of the hanged man, looking pale but impressed. The children huddled together.

Rhys considered them all as he watched them through his front window. Maybe it was a _little_ too scary for the kids.

They approached slowly and stuck close together. As they got closer, Rhys could make out more details of their costumes. The teenager was dressed up as Little Bo Peep, complete with lacy bows on her wooden shepherd’s crook. Although someone—likely her mother—had forced her to wear a white turtleneck under what would have otherwise been a rather revealing blue jumper with a ruffled white blouse. The smallest child was dressed up as a puffy sheep which was, Rhys could admit to himself, frankly adorable. The others were dressed up as various superheroes. Rhys imagined he’d be seeing a lot of that sort of thing tonight.

As they crossed the threshold into the graveyard, the smaller children huddled together. An Ironman nudged a Batman towards the open grave. The Batman shoved the Ironman a few steps off the path. Another Batman (but with yellow highlights? And a skirt?) started giggling. Teen Bo Peep yanked on their hands and pulled them along the path. The sheep toddled along behind her, her pink face turning red and blotchy. While Rhys was no expert with children, he could recognize a tantrum brewing.

He scratched at his hairline, cautious of his black and white wig. “Maybe a little too scary,” he murmured.

A shadow loomed from the darkness, crossing past the haunted tree and picking its careful way through the graves. One of the children actually screamed when what was supposed to be a werewolf but now resembled a sort of burly woodsman with dog ears and a tail, crossed into the light.

Tim spread his hands and gave them one of his sweetest, most disarming smiles. Rhys couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could see his lips move. Bo Peep stared at him with wide eyes, her cheeks turning pink under her carefully painted freckles. The others began to relax.

Tim said something else. Yellow Batman puffed out her little chest, and Ironman squared his shoulders. Just like in all the movies Tim enjoyed and Rhys fell asleep to, all the superheroes were easily rallied.

Still seemingly frightened, but no longer cowed, the group approached the door with the help of their new escort. The front door creaked open dramatically before they could reach for the sneering door knocker (which would cackle at random times—something that was already starting to annoy Rhys) and Rhys stood in the door frame, backlit with dim, flickering light.

Bo Peep chewed at her glossed lip while the children stared with wide eyes at the decorated interior. While they took in the horror show behind him, she looked up at him with probable awe. Rhys preened. He knew he looked good, dressed in his black silk shirt, a white waistcoat with shiny black buttons, slim black slacks and white and black oxford shoes. The crowning triumph, of course, was his grandmother’s antique white fur coat, which he wore draped over his arms, slung low under his shoulders.

Rhys leaned against the doorjamb, with his black and golden cigarette holder held in one red-gloved hand as if he were about to conduct an orchestra.

Bo Peep frowned. “Um. Trick or treat?”

“She had no idea who you were supposed to be,” Tim said once they’d all left. Rhys scowled at the back of his head.

“What? Of course she did. Everyone recognizes Cruella De Vil,” he said as he carefully selected a fun sized Snickers from the bowl. “She’s iconic.”

“There hasn’t been a Dalmatians movie since the early aughts,” Tim said.

“So what? The original is a classic,” Rhys said as he fumbled with the wrapping. “Kids love it. Dogs, hot married leads, the villain dies in a car crash…”

“I don’t think she actually dies,” Tim said, amused. “And gender-swapping the outfit might lose some people. Do you need any help with that?”

Rhys flung the candy bar at Tim’s chest. “Gender-swapping is fine. Look at that Yellow Batman. I knew who she was supposed to be.”

“Batgirl,” Tim said, frowning with concentration as he peeled the wrapper carefully with his yellowed claws.

“She can be a Yellow Batman if she wants,” Rhys said with a sniff. “Anyway, after all the alterations you made to your costume, you just look like the Brawny Paper Towel man’s fursona.”

“I don’t want to scare the kids,” Tim said, tossing the unwrapped candy bar back at Rhys.

Another group appeared at the mouth of Rhys’ winding front walk. More superheroes, lead by a tween dressed up as a figure skater. Tim parted the heavy, dark curtains to take a peek.

“How is a torn shirt scary?” Rhys asked through a mouthful of chocolate and caramel.

“Maybe I don’t want to distract the moms.” Tim sent Rhys a wink over his shoulder.

Dads too, Rhys thought as his gaze sank down to the small triangle of Tim’s exposed, naturally furred chest.

“More little kids in this group,” Tim murmured. “Maybe I should go out and help them through.” He straightened and reached for the door handle.

Rhys gabbed a handful of his flannel shirt and yanked him close for a quick kiss. “Don’t sneak up on them through the dark this time,” he advised, trailing one finger down the line of Tim’s neck.

Tim grinned as he swayed closer, unresisting under Rhys’ hands. “Have I had a chance to mention yet just how bizarre your couples costume idea is?” he asked, lips brushing against Rhys’.

Rhys scowled and shoved him away. Tim took a few steps back, laughing.

“Go outside and play hero, jerk,” Rhys said.

“I mean, the implication is either you want to skin me, or that you think Cruella De Vil secretly wanted to fuck the dogs,” Tim said as he opened the door. Rhys shoved him again. Tim laughed at him like the asshole he was. The trick-or-treaters all perked up at his approach, and Rhys couldn’t blame them.

The evening went on, and every time Tim caught a whiff of a too-frightened small child, he was off like a shot. He let them pat his head and tug on his ears. He complimented their costumes, played along with the fiction. He was excited for every superhero, treating every Wonder Woman and Spider-Man like they were the first ones he’d seen all night. Now and then, he asked for their autographs. A few of the kids rolled their eyes at his antics, but most were charmed.

And, despite wearing a shirt, many of the moms (and some of the dads) found Tim… distracting. More than one adult followed Tim up the steps like a stray sheep trusting the wrong hound, shooting hopeful looks at the back of his head, or interested looks down his open shirt. Rhys caught one woman—dressed in a pirate costume—staring at Tim’s chest without an ounce of shame. Rhys caught her eye and actually winked.

Rhys took Tim’s shirt in both hands and crowded him against the closed door after the blushing pirate captain herded her flock back down the path. He kissed Tim hard, slipped him more than a little tongue as Tim ran his hands down Rhys’ sides.

“She couldn’t take her eyes off you,” Rhys said, kissing at Tim’s chiseled jaw. “Did you notice?”

Tim’s head thumped lightly against the wood. “Jesus, I should’ve guessed. I’ll never understand why that gets you so worked up.”

“The same reason I like to drive nice cars and wear expensive clothing, Tim,” Rhys said. Tim snorted and tipped his head back, giving Rhys free access. “I like to flaunt what other people can’t have.”

“You’ve got issues, sweetheart,” Tim said. Rhys nipped at his jaw. Tim cracked one eye open and peered out through the narrow window to the side of Rhys’ door. “Try to think about baseball, will you? We’ve got a new group.”

Rhys let Tim push him gently back, smug and secure in knowing that he’d left the skin on Tim’s neck marked up with red, and that Tim wouldn’t push him away later.

* * *

Rhys remembered what trick or treating felt like when he was a child. He could remember the giddy feeling of being outside with his friends, without any adult chaperone to tell him what he could and couldn’t do. Even those first few years with Sasha and Fiona had been good ones, because Halloween was too big and wonderful to be ruined by unexpected sisters. He could remember how it felt to be out late for the first time in his life, to watch the sky turn dark as pitch at 8pm, long after his supper. The sight of other children on the sidewalk, the weight of his pillowcase slapping against his hip, the chill air that made his nose turn red, all the adults telling him how good and cute he looked. A lot of them, upon seeing his prosthetic, would give him extra candy. It was the only time he really enjoyed their sympathy. He could remember the houses with strange coloured lights, with stuffed scarecrows made from someone’s old clothes, with homemade graves dotting their front lawns.

Rhys enjoyed Halloween as an adult, but it wasn’t the same. Halloween as a child was almost magical.

He felt nostalgic as the clock ticked past 8pm and the crowds began to thin. As he watched Tim crouch to his knees in front of a very small princess, Rhys felt something else as well, both like and unlike the warmth of nostalgia. It felt like the inverse, a longing for something that hadn’t happened yet, but would. Rhys watched as a small hand patted Tim on the top of his head, and felt it swell up from everywhere, pressing gently against the back of his suspiciously damp eyes.

“Disgusting,” he said to himself, unable to look away. He knew he was smiling.

Angel arrived not long after, which pleased Rhys. She had her awful father in tow, which pleased Rhys significantly less.

“Uncle Tim!” She sprinted past the terrifying ghosts and bloody ghouls that haunted Rhys’ front yard and leapt straight into Tim’s outstretched arms.

Tim grunted and staggered a little, but he managed to lift her in the end, to her squealing delight.

“My god, you’re getting so big,” he said, wheezing a little as Rhys approached them both. “How’s the greatest niece in the whole world? Um. What are you dressed up as?”

Rhys couldn’t tell either, but he was glad someone else had asked. She wore a gauzy, puffy white dress with a matching puffy hat over her black hair, and what appeared to be several long tentacle-like appendages sewed to her sleeves and down her back. She threw her arms out, her pearlescent stuffed tentacles flapping with the gesture. One smacked Tim in the mouth.

“I’m a jelly fish!” she said while Tim delicately tried to lean out of her range of attack.

“She’s a wad of chocolate and chips,” Jack said as walked up to them. He looked exhausted. “That’s all she’s been eating all night.” He was dressed in a grey, three-piece suit with a shark’s fin sewn between his shoulder blades.

“Well, whose fault is that?” Tim asked as Angel bounced in his arms.

“Hers,” Jack snapped. “Who could say no to that face?”

Angel’s excitement lowered to a mild simmer when she caught sight of Rhys. They’d been introduced only a handful of times before, and each time it was like the first. Tim had advised Rhys not to worry about it too much; Angel was shy around any adult who wasn’t her teacher or direct family. It’d taken her almost a year to warm up to Jack’s girlfriend.

Tim gave her a little bounce. “Angel, you remember Rhys, right?”

Jack clucked his tongue and folded his arms. Angel kicked her little feet and managed a small, “Hello, Rhys.”

“Hi, Angel.” Rhys was never sure how to talk to children, never mind a child he actually wanted to _like_ him. “I like your costume.”

Angel stared at the ground and mumbled her thanks.

“We’ve got some candy left,” Rhys said. “What’s your favourite kind? Tim essentially bought the entire store, so there’s a good chance we have some.”

“I did not,” Tim said while Angel smiled shyly. “I bought a reasonable amount of candy. Do you want any, Angel?”

“Yes!” Tim kissed her on her cheek and set her down. She took off towards the house, her shimmering dress snapping at her feet. She had, Rhys was amused to see, a pair of those light-up sneakers kids liked so much. They flashed purple and blue up his walk-way.

Jack caught Tim’s sleeve. “Hey, do you have a minute.”

“Oh. Uh. Sure?” Tim looked at Rhys and shrugged. “Do you mind helping Angel while we talk?” he asked. Rhys nodded.

“Don’t give her too much,” Jack warned.

“Give her whatever’s left over,” Tim said cheerfully. He ducked, avoiding the clumsy swat Jack aimed at his head.  

Rhys met with Angel at the front door, where she stood, staring with wide eyes up at the hideous door knocker. Its red-gem eyes lit up and its mouth slowly stretched into a grim smile.

“It’s okay,” Rhys said, giving her a reassuring smile. “It’s just a toy. Just some electronics.”

“Animatronics,” Angel said, pronouncing the long word with ease. She looked around the porch, and down to the front yard, as if noticing everything for the first time. “There’s a lot of them. Are they all animatronics?”

“Some of them,” Rhys said. “The gravedigger over there is, and the hands coming out of the ground are too. The haunted tree at the entrance is probably the most complicated one. You see how its limbs sometimes sway in the breeze?”

“It’s like your arm,” Angel said.

“Well… yes and no. Y’see—” Rhys tugged off the red glove from his right hand. “The idea behind them is similar, but my cybernetic is a lot more complicated than a robotic tree.” He flexed his fingers in demonstration.

Angel bit her lip, flushing. Rhys wondered, belatedly, if correcting her had been a good idea. Could he have embarrassed her? “I guess so,” she said.

Rhys tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Come on. I’ve got a lot more cool things inside for you to look at.”

Angel perked up at that, at least. She followed Rhys to the front room and watched intently as he showed her around the various installations the FX company had set up for him. Mid-way through an explanation of the severed limb shelf, Rhys wondered if maybe this was all a little too bloody and violent for a first grader. But Angel didn’t look frightened or even nervous. She held her chin with one hand, her little brow furrowed, in a gesture that almost looked performative. Like something she’d seen a child actor do on television.

Tim came through the door just as Rhys activated the haunted mirror for Angel’s examination. He nearly fell backwards onto the door when the glass began to wail its digital misery at him, a stream of tormented faces floating past.

Angel evidently thought this was the funniest thing she’d seen all night. “Uncle Tim!” she gasped through her laughter as he pulled himself up straight. “It’s just a machine! You look so scared!”

“I was _startled_ ,” Tim said, his face turning red. “Not _scared_.” He gave Rhys a sharp look, as if looking for corroboration. Rhys offered him none. He cleared his throat and hid his smile behind his hand.

“Anyway,” Tim went on. “Angel, do you mind going to visit with your dad outside? I need to speak with Rhys alone.”

“Is everything okay?” Rhys asked as the door swung shut behind Angel.

“Fine,” Tim said, but he was rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh. Jack asked if we could babysit Angel overnight.”

Several things occurred to Rhys in a very small amount of time. If they were saddled with a kid, they could kiss Yvette’s party goodbye. Angel’d  been mainlining sugar all night and now Jack was looking to leave her? Jack couldn’t have given them more notice? Would this become a habit of his? Maybe it already was, and Rhys hadn’t known until now. Rhys didn’t have any of Angel’s things, no toothbrush or change of clothes or kids-friendly cereal. He did have Poptarts, though, but they were Tim’s and they were the boring brown sugar flavour. And Angel had already eaten too much sugar…

And then, a thought emerged like an electrified corpse from a slab: he’d said _us_. The shift to plural pronouns felt seismic in Rhys’ head. _Us_. _They_ were going to look after Angel for the night. Rhys felt he should have been more frightened of the implications behind this mental switch being flipped from _me and you_ to _us_ , but somehow he wasn’t. It felt almost like catching sight of the grinning rubber butler in his entrance that Tuesday morning. Something that startled him for only a moment.

Emotionally stunted as he was, he didn’t have the language to say any of this out loud. Instead, he said, “I don’t have a toothbrush for her.”

Tim relaxed. “Jack’s gonna bring her overnight bag. We don’t have to worry about any of that.” He hesitated, chewing on his lip as he cast a glance back at the now-silent mirror. “Are you sure this is okay? It means we’ll have to skip out on the party tonight. I know you were looking forward to it…”

Rhys wondered what would happen if he said no, that he would rather not babysit Tim’s niece but would rather drink black and orange jello shots and dance to top 40s at Yvette’s party. Likely, Tim wouldn’t argue. He would tell Rhys to have a good time and take Angel to his apartment, and the switch would flip back. And it would take a long time to fix, if he could fix it at all.

“It’s fine,” Rhys said with a forced smile. “There’s always next year, right?”

Lord help him, but Tim’s answering smile melted the gilt of Rhys’ heart. Even if he had to spend the night watching Disney movies with a grade schooler, it would be worth it just because it made Tim look at him like that.

“Thank you.” Tim kissed him. “I’ll tell Jack.”

Rhys caught his wrists before he could step away, reeled him close and kissed him in earnest. Tim smiled against his lips, wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and placed the other at his hip. Rhys didn’t realise he was being walked backwards until he felt the wall at his back. The hand at his hip gave a squeeze.

“Anyone ever tell you that you wear too many clothes?” Tim asked, his breath warm and sweet on Rhys’ face.

“I’ve been telling _you_ that all night,” Rhys said.

“I owe you one for this,” Tim said. “I’ll wear whatever you like next weekend. All day, if you’d like. Although—“ He kissed along Rhys’ neck, dropped his voice to a whisper. “If you make me wear the ears and tail, I’ll tell all your friends you’re a furry.”

Rhys shoved him back. “Go and tell your awful brother we’ll take his beautiful daughter for the night,” he said while Tim laughed.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Tim stole another kiss and leapt out of Rhys’ reach before he could retaliate or drag him back. “I meant it, by the way,” Tim said, pausing at the door. “I owe you.”

“You don’t,” Rhys said. To his surprise, he meant it.

* * *

Rhys removed his fur coat and returned it to its cedar chest for storage. At least, he supposed, a quiet night in meant he wouldn’t have to send it out for expensive cleaning.

Tim removed his ears and tail, although he kept the Brawny Man flannel and jeans. Angel opted to keep wearing her jellyfish costume, although she let them remove the tentacles. They poured out her haul onto Rhys’ breakfast table, and began to sort through it.

“Does your dad let you keep all the candy?” Rhys asked, eyeing the colourful pile.

“No,” Angel said, unconcerned. She glanced at the door, looked back at Rhys and lowered her voice. “But I know where he keeps it. Don’t tell Uncle Tim.”

Rhys, thrilled to be ushered into Angel’s confidence, kept his face straight as he tapped the side of his nose and nodded.

“Angel, your dad’s at the door if you want to say goodnight,” Tim said as he breezed inside. “Oof, that is a lot of candy. You carried that bag all night? You’re gonna have big muscles in no time.”

Angel giggled as Tim gave her bicep a light squeeze. “Dad carried it. No muscles until after grade eight,” she said as she slid off the chair.

“I forgot to ask,” Rhys said as Angel fled the room. “Is everything okay with Jack? This whole thing came on kind of sudden…”

Tim rolled his eyes, which was answer enough. “He’s fine. He and Nisha just want to go out tonight. Normally I’d tell him to pound sand, but he’s spent the last seven Halloweens with Angel.”

“She’s _his_ daughter,” Rhys pointed out. Tim shrugged as he picked up a box of Smarties.

“I know, but… She’s my niece. I like spending time with her.” He shook the candy onto his palm. “I mean, if you’d rather go out, it’s fine. I can take her back to my apartment. I’ve got a spare mattress, so…”

Rhys stood up, took Tim by the shoulders, and kissed the tip of his nose. “It’s _fine_. I want you to stay. Both of you.” He kissed Tim’s smiling lips. “I’ve got plenty of room.”

Rhys had bought the four bedroom house because he knew he would grow into it. He had plans for his future, and all those plans involved sharing his life with someone. Starting a family, maybe. He’d bought the place when he was twenty-six years old, when it felt as if his happy family future was still a distant horizon. A long away ‘what if’ he could daydream about in the same way he used to daydream about visiting Disney Land, or back-packing around Europe, or building his first company, or selling his first company.

It didn’t feel so distant anymore. He’d had plenty of relationships before, and he’d even fantasized about marriage for one or two of them, but he’d never gotten further than the fantasy. Suddenly, almost without him noticing, Rhys was on the road to making it a reality.

The fear of it quivered in his chest, but it was a small, petty thing. Already starving, and soon to die, Rhys was certain. It had no chance against the larger, warmer feeling that surged against it. He kissed Tim again.

This was a choice. Rhys always knew it would be, but he had no idea how easy it would be to make. And maybe that was a little scary.

They spent the night in Rhys’ den, watching the G-rated horror movie marathon on the Disney channel. Angel watched with the same rapt attention she’d shown all the electronics and robotics in Rhys’ home as Bette Middler cast a spell over the adults at a school dance, and a pack of plucky tweens and their talking cat companion tried to thwart her and her sisters. Part-way through the movie, she tried to work out a way to get a talking cat of her own.

“I could make a device,” she said as she reached for the popcorn. “Something the cat could wear, maybe like a collar.”

“There’s an old movie like that. A cat wore a glowing collar and talked to his owner. I think it was an alien cat,” Tim said. Angel was curled up on his side, resting her head against a pillow on his shoulder.

“Why would an alien cat need a device to talk to people?” Rhys asked, reaching for his own handful out of the bowl balanced on Tim’s lap. “If it’s an alien, just let it talk.” He was on Tim’s other side, with Tim’s arm around his shoulders.

“We’d have to find a way to translate what cats are saying first,” Angel went on, ignoring them both. “We’d need to get someone to write a cat-to-human dictionary.”

“There’s an episode of the Simpsons like that,” Tim said. “Except it’s with babies.”

Angel wrinkled her nose. “That show is old.”

“So is Tim,” Rhys said helpfully. Tim pinched his ear.

“We should watch some Treehouse of Horrors after this. There’s a marathon on FXX,” Tim said. He looked down at the top of Angel’s head, hesitating. “It might be a little violent.”

Angel shrugged and ate another handful of popcorn. “After Nightmare Before Christmas.”

In reality, Angel didn’t make it even half-way through the next movie, which was some kind of made for TV thing about teen werewolves who played in a band. She slumped over onto Tim’s lap during the training montage as the semi-feral werewolf teen boy learned how to play guitar.

Tim carried her upstairs to one of Rhys’ spare rooms. It took him almost twenty minutes to get her back to sleep. When he re-joined Rhys downstairs, he said it was because he had to continue his story.

“What story?” Rhys asked.

“Just something I’ve been sort of writing for her,” Tim said with practiced nonchalance. “A story about an adventurer and her friends. She went to an undersea palace last month, and met the merqueen.”

He reclaimed his spot beside Rhys. Rhys crawled over him as soon as Tim settled, pushing Tim gently down and using his chest as a pillow.

“Sounds cute,” Rhys said through a yawn. “I’d like to hear a little someday.”

“It’s just something fun,” Tim said as he stroked Rhys’ hair. “She likes it. I’ve been doing it for a few years now. I figure one day she’ll outgrow it and that’ll be that, but it’s nice while it lasts.”

He’d make a good dad. The thought rose in Rhys’ mind unbidden, almost gently, and the weight of it made Rhys tremble. He tried to forget it had occurred to him in the first place but, like a werewolf during the full moon, there was no changing back.

“You okay?” Tim asked, frowning down at Rhys.

The panic of the moment subsided, the creature returning to its lagoon. Rhys relaxed. It was easy to adjust to this new reality, the one where he thought about Tim’s suitability as a father, and all the ever-afters that it implied.

“Yeah,” Rhys said. “I wouldn’t worry. When she’s older, you can just get her to play that nerdy tabletop role playing game you like so much.”

“Dungeons and Dragons,” Tim said, brushing a few strands behind Rhys’ ear. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what it’s called.”

They watched the teen werewolf rock band movie, and the first ten minutes of Nightmare Before Christmas before Tim switched it over to the Treehouse of Horror marathon. Rhys watched as Homer travelled back in time, feeling lulled by the rhythm of Tim’s breathing, the beat of his heart against his ear, the feel of his fingers against his scalp. By the time the credits rolled, it was a struggle to keep his eyes open.

“Do you need me to carry you to bed too?” Tim’s voice rumbled pleasantly in his chest. Rhys sighed and let his eyes drift shut.

“Sure,” he mumbled.

Tim snorted, but he did as he promised and carried Rhys into the master bedroom. Over the threshold, cradled in his arms like a bride. Their room, Rhys supposed. He yawned.

They stripped out of their costumes and, upon Tim’s advice, into their pajamas.

“Angel’s gonna wake us up for sure,” he warned. “And she’s not great about knocking.”

Rhys normally slept in the nude, but Tim had a pair of boxers that would do the trick. Rhys decided to pair it with one of Tim’s hideous t-shirts. It had a picture of a bulldog wearing sunglasses on the front, and the words ‘DON’T MESS WITH THE BULL’ printed below. Tim bought it from a yard sale, like everything else he owned. It should’ve been a turn-off.

The first time Rhys had seen Tim wearing one of his ugly t-shirts—this one with Tweety Bird from Looney Tunes wearing a baseball cap and a jersey—paired with his pale dad jeans, it certainly had been. Rhys had been ready to dump Tim on the spot. Tim had found the whole thing amusing.

Now look where they were. Tim stored part of his awful wardrobe in Rhys’ closet, and in the drawer Rhys had emptied out just for his use. He kept his toothbrush in Rhys’ medicine cabinet, along with his special toothpaste for his sensitive teeth. His apron hung off the back of Rhys’ kitchen door. His library book sat on Rhys’ bedside table, on his side of the bed. He had a _side_.

They crawled into bed. Tim grinned when he saw what Rhys was wearing. He kissed him and pressed him down into the sheets.

There was a tub of Rhys’ hair gel sitting on the lip of Tim’s sink. Several of Rhys’ shirts and slacks hung from wooden hangers in Tim’s closet. Tim hadn’t even owned wooden hangers before he started dating Rhys. He kept a box of Rhys’ healthy granola cereal in his cupboard and a carton of almond milk in his fridge. He kept a pint of tiger tail ice cream in the freezer—Rhys’ favourite. Tim slipped his hand past Rhys’ waistband. He swallowed Rhys’ quiet moan.

“Look… You… you did this to me,” Rhys said, arching into Tim’s hand. “Look at… what I’m wearing.”

Tim snorted softly into the crook of Rhys’ neck. “You love it.” He nibbled at Rhys’ ear, at the spot that always made Rhys’ toes curl. “You look real nice.” His voice became strained as Rhys groped for him under the covers. “Love the way you look in my clothes.”

Rhys sunk his teeth into Tim’s lower lip. He threw one long leg over Tim’s calf and pressed close.

Afterwards, after Tim had cleaned them both up and Rhys had found another ugly shirt to wear, they curled up together under the covers.

“So…” Rhys toyed with a strand of Tim’s chest hair, his heart thudding in his ears. “When are you gonna move in already?”

Tim hummed, his eyes already closed. For a moment, Rhys was afraid he’d already fallen asleep and Rhys would have to work up the courage to ask him again in the morning.

“I was thinking after the holidays,” Tim said, voice thick with creeping exhaustion. “Christmas is gonna be stressful enough without adding a move on top of everything.”

Rhys nearly melted in Tim’s arms. “That’s smart thinking,” he said, almost giddy with relief. “I knew I didn’t just date you for your looks.”

Tim smiled, his eyes still closed. “That’s good. I won’t be handsome forever.”

“You’ll always be handsome to me,” Rhys said.

“Even when I’m old and fat and all my hair falls out?”

Forever, Rhys thought. The scariest word he could think of, but there was no bite to it. There was no purchase in his mind, or his heart, where the fear could dig in its claws.

He kissed Tim’s brow. “Even then.”

Tim squeezed him, pressed a lazy kiss onto Rhys’ neck, and settled back. Rhys watched what he could see of Tim’s face in the blue moonlight, as he began to relax from the tension of the day, sleep taking him at last.

Rhys lay his head on the pillow beside him. In a few hours—too few, probably—Angel would come into their room and wake them up. They would make breakfast together, and Tim would prepare the eggs, and Rhys would take care of the toast and coffee. They would spend the day together, and Rhys would mention moving again, just to reassure Tim that it wasn’t just post-orgasmic bliss that made him speak up. To let him know that he was serious.

Because he was. And there was nothing frightening about that, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the FX stuff was inspired by a childhood spent getting traumatized at haunted amusement parks or whatever. I also read a Gizmodo? I think? article once about people who turn their houses into haunted houses for Halloween. 
> 
> Hell Houses are real and nightmarish.
> 
> What isn't real was the made for TV movie about a guitar-playing werewolf teen, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.


End file.
